


paint it aluminum

by readtheroomfucko



Series: petals for armour [1]
Category: Dead To Me (TV)
Genre: F/F, honestly i have no idea what this is, it was sitting in my google docs for months, maybe it’s ooc sue me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:47:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26222893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readtheroomfucko/pseuds/readtheroomfucko
Summary: so this is extremely short and jen is kind of cruel (idk it’s just angst, guys). i’ve never written from judy’s perspective before so this was my first and last shot at that. title and vibes courtesy of drunk on aluminum by wintersleep.
Relationships: Judy Hale/Jen Harding
Series: petals for armour [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1954876
Comments: 14
Kudos: 46





	paint it aluminum

**Author's Note:**

> so this is extremely short and jen is kind of cruel (idk it’s just angst, guys). i’ve never written from judy’s perspective before so this was my first and last shot at that. title and vibes courtesy of drunk on aluminum by wintersleep.

Judy’s used to this part, at least; the flutter in her chest when she’s a little bit tipsy, a little bit reckless, and Jen catches her staring, lip corners quirking up around her wine glass. The prickly heat that rises to the surface of her skin at each point of contact when Jen places a hand on her waist to squeeze by her in the kitchen. She falls fast and hard. She always has. 

It makes sense that she wants Jen, even just for the fact that Jen is so discriminant in who she deems worthy of affection. Like a haughty boss or a schoolyard mean girl, Judy was always bound to ache for her approval, to crave it like confirmation that she’s worthy of it. She thinks of herself as an addict sometimes; always chasing the rush of being wanted. It’s an old wound, the oldest she has, really, but it still bleeds. She’s used to it. 

What she’s not used to is the _restraint_ ; the physical sting every time Jen hugs her and Judy has to pull back if it lingers. Has to put distance between them because this time there’s a boundary she can’t cross, a line in the sand, and Jen’s breath against her neck erodes it layer by layer. It’s suspension; particles in the air and a dust storm in her lungs. 

After Steve, she and Jen are friends again and it’s enough for Judy to have the type of friendship Jen offers — it feels like it should be enough, at least, because it’s more than she’s ever had and she knows she doesn’t deserve as much. 

Then comes the leap forward; then comes co-owning homes and a family that feels like it’s hers but isn’t. Two boys that feel like her sons but aren’t and Jen, feet planted firmly in the soil on the far side of a barricade. Judy’s been toeing the line for a while now and if she gets too close, says too much, she risks losing it all entirely.

It’s a delicate balance, so she says, “God, I love you,” and lets the end of the thought sink in her throat. _But it’s hurting me._

Jen smiles at her, says, “I love you too,” like it means _don’t push your luck_ , follows it with, “It’s getting late — we should head in,” and it almost makes Judy want her more. 

She wonders if there’s some version of reality where this could end differently; if there’s some iteration of Judy that Jen would want to sink her teeth into. She wants to find it in herself and wear it like a costume, wants to be _wanted_ by Jen in such a desperate, juvenile way. Judy’s not very good at holding back, she’s discovered. It feels dangerous.

Judy nods in response and Jen would have to be stupid to miss the way Judy’s gaze falls to her lips and the tension in her fingers as she holds her crystal wine glass tight to her chest like a lifeline. She imagines squeezing until she feels the tangible burn of flint glass in her palm, wonders if Jen would flinch at the sound, and the sapped energy she funnels into this façade suddenly feels unwarranted. Of course Jen knows. Jen’s probably always known and somehow that’s the worst part. 

She thinks that maybe Jen gets off on it sometimes, the fact that she could so easily have Judy if she wanted her. The same way that Judy gets a sick thrill out of being on the receiving end of drunken flirtation from college kids in bars. It’s humouring attention for the sake of validation and it doesn’t mean anything beyond proof of fuckability. She understands it, obviously. Jen has her reasons for needing reminders. Doesn’t everybody?

Still, Judy wishes she was better at keeping secrets. It feels crass when it’s thrown back in her face like this.

Jen is clearly more than a little bit drunk, because when she moves to pull off her socks she lurches forward, knees landing on either side of Judy’s hips. Jen’s hand comes down hard against her chest and Judy gasps, the air knocked from her lungs. 

“Jesus, Jen,” Judy groans, “If you’re going to feel me up, you could at least try to be gentle.”

Jen rolls her eyes, “You wish.”

Judy could laugh it off, it’s a joke after all, but it’s starting to feel more and more like another lie. Another structural flaw in the foundation of their lives hastily mended by strips of painter’s tape and half-truths. She smiles and it’s tight. Bitter. The bitterness is new for Judy. 

Jen’s eyes widen, lips parting slightly. “ _Oh_ ,” she says quietly, “You do.”

The next morning, there’s a fresh pot of coffee steaming in the kitchen when Judy wakes up. Jen pours her a mug, pulls a carton of oat milk from the fridge, and slides it across the kitchen island like an apology. 

She takes a sip of her own and sighs, both hands cradling the travel thermos. “Could you look after the boys after work?” she asks, “I have a date tonight.”

And maybe it _is_ an apology.

Judy thinks about the disdain that laces Jen’s words when she doesn’t get her way. It’s never directed at her anymore, but she knows Jen is capable of it and she wonders if the two of them are like mismatched puzzle pieces. All collisions and incongruous ridges. Judy thinks about how, on days like this, loving Jen feels like hating herself.

They don’t talk about it. 


End file.
